Once Bitten
by Maestro Gimp
Summary: The Inquisitor learns that her clan is being threatened by sinister outside forces. She rides to their aid, but how much help can she be while injured? She must learn to lean on someone again, even after having her heart broken. Maybe that someone could be Cullen. Post-epilogue, featuring f!Lavellan, Cullen, and Solas. Spoilers, in case that wasn't obvious.
1. A Cry for Help

Hi all! Planning on this series being easy-reading with shorter chapters and (hopefully) frequent updates. Featuring f!Lavellan/Cullen/Solas pairings. Who can say which pairing will win out?

Please enjoy, and feel free to leave comments if you feel compelled. It's always nice!

* * *

The official story was that the Inquisitor broke her hand in a training exercise gone wrong. But who would believe that?

People. Everywhere, everyone wanted to believe it. It was so mundane. Their Inquisitor had faced Corypheus, slain his dragon, and united Thedas. Things like this, hands broken in training accidents, reminded them that she was a person, fallible, clumsy, susceptible to falls. It was beautiful in its simplicity.

Yes, it had been a fall, but what part about it had been accidental?

Cullen looked over the Inquisitor sitting on a window sill near the war table. She was small for an elf, slight. She had light blond hair she had grown out past her shoulders, strikingly blue eyes, and lips that were pulled in a perpetual frown these days. And there was the splint.

The surgeon had claimed it was absolutely necessary for the splint to cover not only her hand, but her forearm and bicep, too. Magic could not restore full function of her hand if she did not splint everything. Her whole arm was immobilized and attached to her neck with a cloth sling like a leaden ball and chain. She had found a stick in the gardens and was scratching under the wrappings miserably even now as she stared out the window.

"What do you think, Inquisitor?" Josephine asked, and both Cullen and Lavellan snapped their gaze back to her.

The Inquisitor looked helplessly between her advisers, giving a half-formed response.

"Maybe this can wait until tomorrow," Lelianna said. "It's late."

"Yes, I suppose we can wrap up the things we need to," Josephine said, "and continue another time with the rest." She smiled at Lavellan.

Cullen noted that they'd both been avoiding eye contact with the splint.

The Inquisitor leapt from the window sill like a cat and exited quietly, giving her advisers an appreciative smile before disappearing behind the doors.

* * *

Cullen found the Inquisitor in her chambers. She'd been spending much more time there than she ever had before. He was used to seeing her running about Skyhold, talking with their companions, trying to save the world one person at a time.

"You've taken to being much more pensive than usual," he said as he ascended the stairs into her chambers. "Forgive my intrusion."

Lavellan was on her north-facing balcony, staring down at the fortress. She turned and smiled at his approach. "There's nothing to forgive."

They leaned on the railing next to one another, looking at the horizon line. It was approaching sunset, and the dying light from the west cast the entire mountain range in a blaze of color. The clouds were pink, the peaks gold. High above, the stars were emerging, blinking away their sleep.

"I don't think I'll ever get tired of this view," Lavellan offered.

Cullen laughed. "You do have the best seat in the house. I need to come up here more often."

She glanced at him, frowning, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"That's not what I meant," he said. "I just meant to see the view. The landscape." He groaned. "Talking has never been my strong suit."

She smiled. "I know."

"I wouldn't… I know you're hurting," Cullen said. "Solas leaving, it must have been hard on you."

The smile didn't leave Lavellan's lips, but he saw some of the light go out of her blue eyes. "I just need some time. Time heals."

He did not believe her, but he didn't think it would help to contradict her.

"So, Commander," she said, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Cullen blinked. He didn't particularly have a reason, other than to check up on her. "I thought you might want some company," he finally said.

She frowned and was about to reply when there was an urgent knock on the door. Lavellan bade entry, and an Inquisition runner marched up the stairs, parchment in hand.

"For you, Lady Inquisitor," the runner said, her Orlesian accent thick.

Lavellan took it, scanning the lines. Her face grew more sullen the further she read. When she finished, her expression hardened. "Prepare my horse," she said.

The runner bowed and left the way she'd come.

The Inquisitor strode over to her trunk, flung it open, and began to toss some clothes in a pile.

Cullen approached. "What's going on?"

"My clan," she said. "They're in trouble."

"We'll send some men to go take a look."

Lavellan glared at him before returning to her packing. "This is my clan, Commander. It is a personal matter that I must attend to." She struggled with a pair of woolen socks, trying to pair them. Her one good hand fumbled with them.

Cullen joined her on the ground, taking the socks from her and pairing them. He began folding the clothes she had strewn about, grouping them in neat military stacks. "You're injured. It's not safe."

She snatched a travel sack out of the trunk and began stuffing in the neatly folded clothes. "Safe has nothing to do with it. They're my family."

"Well, then, someone will just have to go with you to make sure safety remains a priority, because you certainly don't think it is." He glanced at her splint.

"Why don't you come, then?" she snapped.

"Maybe I will."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

They glared at each other for a moment.

Lavellan swung her travel sack over her good shoulder. "Well, you'd better hurry and pack. I'm heading out as soon as they bring my horse around."

He sputtered, but left quickly to gather his things.

And that is how Cullen found himself on the road to the north of Ferelden with Inquisitor Lavellan.


	2. Leaving Skyhold

Thank you to all my readers, and a big shout-out to this story's first favorite and follower, laurieann krueger 7. You rock!

* * *

Of course, they did not leave right away. While the Inquisitor leaned towards the impulsive, Cullen was anything but. He informed Lelianna and Josephine of the situation, knowing that would take care of it.

And take care of it they did. As it turned out, Lavellan's mount had thrown a shoe—in fact, every one of her sixteen mounts had thrown a shoe. All within a span of twenty-four hours. Terrible luck, that. They were, indisputably, unrideable until Dennet could reshoe them.

To say that the Inquisitor was furious would not have done her justice. She was a maelstrom of frustration and silent accusations when she stormed into the war room. She was too kind, too generous to speak ill of her advisers and close friends, so her anger came out as exasperated groans and expletives, directed at no one in general.

While Lavellan paced about the room, her three advisers leaned over the war table, planning out the trip.

Her clan had been experiencing a string of kidnappings. A member of the clan would disappear in the night; no one had ever seen the kidnappers or any signs of a struggle, despite having since beefed up the watch. Invariably, they would find the victim three days later, with no recollection of the ordeal. This was disturbing in of itself, but it wasn't until the victims started turning up mutilated that their Keeper had contacted the Inquisitor, begging for help.

_How can you defend yourself from an enemy you cannot see_? the Keeper had written.

The advisers were currently debating the size of the force they should send with the Inquisitor, once it was clear they would have to physically restrain her to keep her from going. Cullen asserted that a small retinue of foot soldiers would keep the Inquisitor safe, while Lelianna thought it would be safer to be inconspicuous, suggesting the Inquisitor and Cullen travel alone. She insisted that she had agents in every corner of Thedas, and help was never far away.

Josephine came down on Lelianna's side after some debate and it was settled. Even with a broken hand, the Inquisitor was far from helpless. And Cullen was a capable man with a sword. They would be as safe as any could be on the roads.

When the Inquisitor and Cullen reported down to the stables, travel packs slung over their shoulders, all of the mounts were magically reshod. Lavellan grumbled but didn't say anything as she mounted up awkwardly, bumping her immobilized arm against the saddle. Her gray stallion snorted and danced around as she jostled on top of him.

"It's been a while since I've actually done anything," Cullen said, mounting his own white mare.

"You work constantly," Lavellan replied, reining her horse in.

"I meant other than commanding. I've been administrative this whole bloody time. It feels good to be doing something again."

They urged their horses to the gates.

"I can't say I've been cooped up as long as you have," Lavellan said, "but I know what you mean. Since I hurt my hand, everyone's been treating me with kid gloves. This is the first time I've been allowed to ride since the accident."

Cullen was silent a moment. "You know we're just worried about you, right?"

She shrugged. "I guess."

They began the slow descent from Skyhold, winding up and down the mountain paths as the wind buffeted them dangerously close to the ledges. The horses seemed unconcerned by the precipitous drop. Even though their mounts only added about six feet of height, Cullen felt much higher up on horseback than he'd felt on his own two feet. That Josephine was able to convince dignitaries to visit Skyhold on a regular basis was a credit to her skills as an ambassador.

* * *

They made the base of the mountain by nightfall and set up camp in a rocky outcrop that would provide some shelter from the elements. Or, rather, Cullen set up camp. The Inquisitor had put a real effort into being helpful. She started by trying to construct the tents, but the poles kept clattering to the ground; then she'd gone to gather firewood, but could only manage one piece at a time; preparing dinner had seemed like a good fit, but the fine motor skills required for paring the meat and vegetables were simply impossible; and the ground was frozen solid, so digging a latrine was out of the question.

Cullen found her sitting miserably on a stump near the fire pit, fiddling with her splint. He set down his load of firewood onto the pile he'd already collected and squatted next to her, holding his hands out to the fire's warmth.

"I'm sorry I'm useless," Lavellan said. "I didn't think it would be this bad."

Cullen laughed. "I don't mind setting up camp. In fact, I'd say I rather enjoyed being helpful. It's good to be needed."

She squirmed. "Needed is such a strong word." She glanced at him, then looked down. "Sorry," she said. "Thank you."

He waved away her apology. "You never let me apologize through my lyrium withdrawal. You think I'm going to let you apologize through this?"

Their knees bumped, eyes meeting briefly. Cullen stood and Lavellan turned away.

He coughed. "I'm going to, you know… get some more firewood."

The Inquisitor nodded, watching him leaving the ring of the fire light. She glanced at the pile of wood the Commander has already collected.

It was more than enough for the night.


	3. Old Dreams

Hello, my lovely readers. Thank you for sticking with me. A shout-out to my new favoriters and followers, Amethyst -Guardian- Lycure, Dharan queen, and Honeycat'sClaws. Your support is appreciated!

* * *

The Inquisitor was not as pain-tolerant as Cullen would have expected her to be. Perhaps he, too, had been affected by the stories of her deeds; it seemed absurd that she would wince as he changed her bandages when she'd endured dragon bites. But as he wound the clean linen around her hand, she kept jerking her hand away.

He sighed. "I'm going to have to start over if you can't hold still."

Her cheeks reddened. "Sorry. I'll try."

She held still as he finished securing the bandage with a small pin. He handed her the splint, a complicated contraption of wooden staves, gauze, and leather. She shrugged into it with practiced ease; her expression became miserable again as she set the weight of her arm into it.

"Where'd you learn to treat wounds?" she asked as he got up to saddle the horses.

He tightened the girth on her stallion. The horse pawed in displeasure. "You forget I was a Templar once. It's part of the training. And I got a lot of practical application during the rebellion at Kirkwall." He glanced at her, seeing her face had fallen. "I'm not as sore on the subject as I used to be. Having people to talk to… it's helped."

Lavellan quirked her lips. "I'm glad I bothered you about it, then."

He laughed, tightening the girth of his mare. "Feel free to bother me anytime. Well, not that you're bothering me. I meant to say…"

"I know what you mean," the Inquisitor said. She stood, kicking snow onto their dying fire.

It was the morning after they'd set out. They both had slept warmly and soundly in their tents; the outcrop they'd used as shelter had served them well. And, of course, the fire had burned brightly all night, given the amount of wood Cullen had collected. He made a note of the location for their journey back.

He knelt near Lavellan's stallion, cupping his hands to boost her into the saddle. She smiled at the gesture—she had awkwardly whacked the horse with her arm mounting and dismounting the day before. With his help, she climbed smoothly onto her mount, her golden hair blowing in the crisp mountain air.

Lavellan cocked her head at him. "What is it?"

Cullen cleared his throat, turning to his own horse. "Looks like a good day for riding."

A laugh. "If you say so."

* * *

During her time in the infirmary, Lavellan had dreamt drug-induced dreams of him. Of Solas. They had been of great comfort while sleeping. Less so upon waking. Each time she opened her eyes to find the wrinkled face of the healer over her, it was as if he'd left her again.

She began to feign greater pain, just to receive more sleeping agents. Not something she was proud of, but the dreams were so addicting. She could feel him, really _feel_ him; the soft weave of his tunic; the smooth skin at the base of his neck; the elegant slant of his brow. He was warm to the touch, and he smiled that knowing smile of his.

An old spirit. That's what she'd taken him for. He was bookish and well-traveled and knew so much. Knew everything. He didn't just know of magic and the fade; he knew the steps of the Orlesian court dances, led her through turns and dips, smiling away her apologies for missteps; he knew the songs of her people, even if he only sung them to her quietly at night; he knew how to hold her when they kissed, cradling her waist with one hand while he stroked her hair with the other.

In her dreams, they would meet in her chambers in Skyhold. Most of the time, they would simply talk as they always had, like their love hadn't missed a beat. Sometimes he would simply hold her, breathing in her scent.

A few weeks after her fall, the healer informed Lavellan that she would be weaned off the sleeping agents. The pain might be bad at first, the healer said, but it would become tolerable soon. Too much of the sleeping agent could cause a dependency.

It already has, Lavellan thought.

She explained all of this to dream-Solas, because she knew in her heart-of-hearts that the man before her was not Solas, merely a creation of her own mind. At least she could get some closure in this way, even if it seemed hollow.

But Solas continued to smile as she explained. "Lavellan," he'd said with a small laugh, "you're not injured. See?" He'd pressed her palm against his, her fade mark glowing softly.

She'd wanted to curse, cry, beg him to give her this. "Even you won't say goodbye, will you?"

His smile never left. "Why would I say goodbye when I'll see you again?"

That was the last time the healer had given her the sleeping agent, and it was the last time she'd dreamt of Solas.

* * *

The Frostbacks loomed behind Lavellan and Cullen as they plodded into the valley below. They'd made a course to avoid Haven; the bad memories and possibility for recognition were too great. They would camp again. At least they wouldn't be in the snow this time.

As before, Cullen went about setting up camp. Lavellan found a use, brushing the horses once the Commander had unsaddled them. Steam rose from their backs where the saddles had been. They munched happily on fresh grass as the Inquisitor worked. She was very thorough, not having much else she could do, and their thick coats were silky to the touch once she finished.

Supper was a stew of hare and potatoes. Cullen wasn't the best cook; the bottom of the pot had burnt, and a foul smell issued from the stew. But it was edible, and Lavellan ate without complaint.

"Sorry about the food," Cullen began.

But Lavellan waved the apology away. "You were running around doing everything. I'm surprised more things didn't go wrong. I'll be on stirring duty next time."

"Much obliged," he said around a chunk of rabbit. He glanced at her through the fire. She was fair, but blushed easily and often. The fire gave a rosy glow to her full cheeks even now.

Lavellan yawned and stretched. "I think I'll turn in," she said as she wiped her bowl and spoon clean with a rag. She tucked them into her pack, picked it up, and headed towards her tent. She gave him a glance over her shoulder, smiled, and disappeared inside.

Cullen was left to wonder exactly how long he'd been pining after the Inquisitor.


	4. For the People

Hello, wonderful readers. Here is another chapter; I hope you enjoy. And many thanks to my new follower, Narliea.

* * *

It seemed that, despite their drab travel clothes, Cullen and the Inquisitor weren't as inconspicuous as they'd hoped. The first hamlet they passed through, an old woman had watched their passing through narrowed eyes. Cullen had shrugged it off as they were leaving. But just as they were passing the tree line, he'd heard the shout.

"_The Herald of Andraste!"_

Maker help him.

The townsfolk had swarmed them, oblivious to the horses' nervous dancing. They pleaded for absolution, for strength, for love. A young woman with stringy yellow hair held a baby aloft for the Inquisitor to bless.

To her credit, Lavellan was all warm smiles. She had dismounted and led her horse back to the village, everyone following like a parade. She sat with them, one at a time, listened to their concerns, blessed them in the Dalish way. She named the baby _Enansal_, cherished gift, and kissed his forehead. Cullen watched all of this from the periphery, mystified. He'd never actually seen her like this before.

The Inquisitor managed to decline a feast as politely as possible, instead inviting the entire village to Skyhold any time they pleased. Then she mounted up with an apology, begging pardon to go complete urgent business, and she and Cullen were underway again.

The Commander blatantly stared at her as they trotted along.

"What?" Lavellan said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"That was…" He thought for a moment. "That was really nice."

She blushed and turned away from him, facing forward in the saddle. "I'm still not Andrastian," she said.

"No. But I don't think that had much to do with religion. You were very kind."

A laugh. "Am I normally unkind?"

It was his turn to blush. "N-no, not at all." He took a breath so that what he said next wasn't all stutters. "You're worried about your clan. You want to get there as soon as possible to help them. And yet you were willing to stop and just… _be_ with those people."

Lavellan shrugged. "In my head, when I became Inquisitor, I became responsible for more than just my clan. Those villagers are my people, too, even if their ears are a little rounder than mine."

"You are, undoubtedly, the person we needed. In more ways than one. You have my admiration."

She stole a glance at him. "I didn't have it before?"

"What? No. I mean, you've always had it. My admiration, that is." He frowned at her. "You do that on purpose."

Lavellan broke into a smile. "You make it _so_ easy. And I've got to enjoy the simple things in life, like flustering Commander Cullen."

His face became alarmingly red.

Lavellan's smile only spread wider, and they fell into silence.

* * *

His baldness had been something of an enigma to Lavellan, for she'd never encountered a bald elf before Solas. Unlike humans, elven men didn't lose their hair to old age. It grayed over time, but Lavellan hadn't known it was even possible to lose hair until she ventured out from her clan for the first time.

But Solas wasn't old. Sure, he had an old spirit, but his skin was smooth and soft, his gray eyes sharp. So his baldness was a choice, which was even more perplexing to Lavellan. In her clan, men grew their hair long, worked it into elaborate braids, showing off their virility. Thick, long hair was desired.

Yet Solas shaved his head.

"Why?" she'd asked him one day, lounging on his chaise while he worked on the mural.

He paused, brush midair. "Why what?"

"Why do you shave your head?"

He set his brush down on the pallet in his hand, turning to her. "I am against what long hair signifies."

She sat up. "And what is that?"

He approached her, laying the pallet on his desk. "It's complicated," he bowed his head, "but I will try my best to explain. Tonight, I will find you in the Fade."

Lavellan had felt giddy as she wrapped her covers tight. She'd had a few drinks with Bull, hoping it would help her fall asleep faster. She was certainly eager to experience what Solas wanted to show her, but she couldn't help but think of what had transpired last time they'd shared a dream. And hope it would happen again.

When she finally fell asleep, she found herself in a sunlit glade, surrounded by giant trees. Sleepy mist clung to the moss, moving out of the way with each step she took. A herd of harts stared at her through the trees before fleeing silently. Everything was so green.

"This is a place I like to visit," Solas said from behind her, causing her to jump. "I find it peaceful."

Lavellan looked around before turning to Solas, smiling. "It's ancient," she said.

He smiled, too. "Yes. A memory of a place long-since defiled. But it is preserved here." He tapped his head.

Solas gestured to a large, mossy rock and Lavellan sat. He sat next to her, inches separating them.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked, gesturing at the forest around them. "Other than the fact that you like it."

He laughed. "I forget you are more to the point than I. You wished to know why I shave my head. Very well. Follow me."

They walked through the forest. As they went, colorful birds passed above in the trees. A large cat with red stripes darted to find new cover. Leaves the size of a shield floated down from above. An ambient hum of insects and birds washed over them.

"I see why you like it here," Lavellan said.

They approached ruins, which emerged suddenly out of the trees. So well hidden by plant growth and moss. Lavellan headed towards a columned entrance, but Solas placed a hand on her arm. "Another time, perhaps," he said, guiding her around the side. He stopped before a large stone wall, relatively intact, and began to remove vines.

He uncovered painted depictions of elves. In the scene, two elves sat raised on thrones. Their hair was in thick braids, elaborately sculpted atop their heads. Below them, lying prostrate, were elves with short-cropped hair.

"They're… subservient," Lavellan said.

Solas nodded. "In my travels, I have learned that the ancient elves used hair as a class distinction. A distinction I want no part of."

She looked at the painting a moment longer before turning to Solas.

"I am sorry," he began, "if I have hurt you. I only intended—"

She pressed her lips to his, hands lightly on his shoulders. It was short and sweet. She pulled away, looking uncertainly into his eyes. "Thank you," she said, "for showing me."

His eyes searched her face, glinting, before he came in for another kiss. His lips were hungry as they melded against hers, his tongue parting her lips insistently.

Lavellan felt lightheaded, convinced it was the strange air in the Fade. She allowed Solas to chase her to the ground, their kisses becoming searching hands and caresses. Exploring the shape of the person before them.

He was broader than she's expected, broader than elves she'd kissed before. His shoulders were powerful as he cradled himself above her. He was very controlled, keeping his hips from connecting with hers, keeping it innocent in a way, even as their explored one another.

But as Lavellan reached for his belt, she felt gentle hands restraining her. She looked up into Solas's eyes, hurt.

"Not here, lethallan," he said, his voice husky with desire. He planted a tender kiss on her lips.

And suddenly she was awake in her bed, alone.


	5. Honesty

Hello, loveliest of readers. Just a heads up, but school is starting up again for me. That means less frequent updates. Hoping to still update weekly, potentially more (depending on how often I find myself procrastinating), but certainly not on a daily basis.

Thanks to my new followers/favoriters: hpggvm fan4ever, MyShadowsKill, Starbuckathena, Mandimal, russianbear27, LiB008, and Douxdel. That is getting to be a long list!

* * *

They hadn't been expecting any bears just outside of Redcliffe. It was too early in the spring for them to be out of hibernation. Yet there it was, in its full 1,000 pound glory, splashing through the half-frozen river crossing as they came around the bend. Cullen waved at the Inquisitor to turn her horse, head the other way, but the bear reared up, nose flaring.

Before either of them could kick their horses to run, it charged. It closed the distance in a matter of seconds, ramming Lavellan's horse. The stallion screamed as it went down. She managed to roll out from under it before it collapsed, sparing herself more broken limbs.

"Inquisitor, stay behind me!" Cullen shouted as he jumped down from his mount, drawing his sword from its sheath.

She laughed mirthlessly, drawing a dagger in her left hand. "And leave you to take on this thing by yourself?"

Lavellan's horse stopped thrashing. The grizzly looked up at them, gore dripping from its muzzle.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen shouted, jumping back from a swipe of claws. "Can't you just listen? I'm supposed to protect you!"

"And who's going to protect you?" Lavellan sprang in, parrying a swipe aimed at Cullen's face. She grunted with the force of the blow, her feet digging into the peat.

"I don't need protecting!" Cullen snapped, baiting the bear away from Lavellan.

"And neither do I!" She threw her dagger, landing it squarely between two of the bear's massive ribs. It snarled, turning on her. She drew another dagger in her off hand.

Cullen chopped into the bear's hindquarters, drawing its attention back to him. "You can't even be honest about that, can you?"

"About needing protection?"

"About anything!"

The bear reared up, slamming its full weight down on Cullen. His sword clattered away. Claws screeched against his armor, leaving dents.

Lavellan took a running leap, landing on the bear so that she was straddling it. She dug her dagger into the base of its neck for purchase. "I am always honest," she shouted over the bear's growls. One of its claws found purchase in her thigh. She sprang away, feeling the flesh of her leg tear.

"You're not honest about anything," Cullen roared, bringing his blade down over the bear's back. "You haven't even cried once since _he_ left," Cullen roared, bringing his blade down over the bear's back. "You just keep smiling, like nothing's wrong!"

Lavellan hobbled away from the bear's claws. "You want me to break down? Sob a little?"

He deflected a swipe at his head. "That would be refreshing, for you to acknowledge your feelings!"

She snorted, springing forth to shove a dagger between the bear's shoulders. "And what about you?"

"We're not talking about me!"

"And why not?" She sprung away as the bear torqued around to snap at her. "You've been interested in me since Haven and you never said a damn thing!"

His eyes went wide. The bear managed to bite his sword, wrenching it out of his grip. "That-that is untrue!"

Lavellan jumped in front of the Commander, stabbing the bear in the nose. It reared back, pawing its face. Cullen rolled to the left, reclaiming his sword, and Lavellan jumped away as the bear came back down.

Cullen put his shoulder down and drove into the side of the bear, burying his sword in its flank. It writhed, turned, and buffeted him back. But the damage was done. Its fur was dark and wet. It staggered back, lips flaring in warning.

"Okay," Cullen snapped, "let's say what you're claiming is true—I'm desperately and madly in love with you. Nothing bad has come of me ignoring those feelings. I'm not the one that tried to kill myself!" He charged at the bear, running his sword through its throat. It groaned and collapsed, coughing as it slowly bled out. He wiped his blade on its fur before sheathing it and turning to his companion.

The Inquisitor looked incredibly small, dagger in her offhand, splint spattered with the bear's blood. She was staring at his shins, and he could detect a slight tremor running through her frame.

"Oh Maker," Cullen breathed, "I'm so sorry." He approached her, hands held out, like one might approach a wounded animal.

Her eyes, normally dancing blue with energy, seemed dull. She turned from him. "It's fine," she said. "It's fine."

He was about to breathe another apology when he noticed her leg. His eyes widened at the amount of blood. "You're hurt!" He moved to her side, ushering her to sit on a rock. "Let me see."

"It's fine, Cullen," Lavellan said wearily.

He peeled back her leggings where they stuck to the wound, wincing as he did so. He could tell the cut was deep, maybe even to the bone. He looked up at the Inquisitor, begging pardon, before spreading the wound with his thumbs.

It didn't run to the bone, thank the Maker. And it was a clean cut with nice edges; it would heal well enough. But it was deep, and even from the brief inspection, a new stream of blood was dribbling down the Inquisitor's leg.

"Wait here," he said, and returned to where Lavellan's horse had fallen. His was nowhere in sight. He rummaged through the packs on the horse's back, pulling out a medical kit and a small bucket. He gathered some water at the river crossing and returned to the Inquisitor.

She was lying on the ground, her leg propped up on the rock she'd been sitting on moments ago. She turned her head to look at him, upside-down.

He knelt beside her, spreading out his supplies. "I'm going to have to stitch it before I pack it with a poultice," he said. "Do you want something for the pain?"

Lavellan was tempted. Not because the pain was intolerable, but because the prospect of seeing Solas again was intoxicating. But she felt that if she took the drugs and left things as they were with Cullen, they would be hard to fix.

She shook her head. "I can hold still. Besides, we need to be ready. In case there's another bear about."

After a moment, Cullen nodded. He took a clean rag from the kit, wetted it, and began cleaning the Inquisitor's leg. There were some sharp intakes of breath, but true to her word, she didn't move. He tried to be as gentle as possible, but much good that did him when it came time to pour alcohol on the wound. She hissed an unintelligible string of curses, looking skyward. Cullen could see tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, but they didn't spill over.

It was almost a mercy when he began to stitch the cut closed.

Forty stitches and several inches of bandage later, Lavellan laid on the ground, exhausted. She was pale, paler than he would have liked, but whole. Cullen stood over her, wiping his hands on the rag.

He left her to fetch the rest of the supplies from her horse. He looked briefly for his own horse, but didn't see the white mare and didn't want to be away from the Inquisitor for too long. He began to make camp when he returned. When the tent was set-up, he carried Lavellan inside. Cullen was struck by just how small she was, weighing no more than a child in his arms. He placed her on a pile of furs, wrapping more around her.

She stared at him with glassy eyes. "Cullen," she said, barely a whisper.

He knelt, bringing his face close. "Yes?"

She sat up, shaking with the effort, before placing a kiss on his stubbled cheek. She fell back, closing her eyes. "You were right," she said.

He stared at her. "Wh-what do you mean?"

Lavellan sighed, not opening her eyes. "I am not always open with my feelings. There are so many… amplifying, confusing, contradicting. I am not honest about them." She took a shaking breath.

"No, Lavellan," he paused after saying her name, as if sampling foreign cuisine, "you were right, too. I have not been… forthcoming. What you said, of our interactions in Haven…"

"It's okay," she said. "You don't have to explain anything." She placed her uninjured hand on his arm. "I've been dependent on you since we left Skyhold. Thank you for taking care of me."

Cullen blushed and stood, his head colliding with the fabric of the tent. He ducked back down, trying to hide his face. "You'll need water and something to eat if you are to get your strength back. I'll be back."

By the time he returned with a warm meal and a water skin, Lavellan was snoring lightly among the furs. He shook her into a semi-wakeful stupor to get her to eat and drink a little before allowing her to drop back into sleep.

That night, he slept beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest, and straining to feel the ghostly touch of her lips on his cheek.


	6. The Fall

Hello, most fantastic readers! A special thanks to my new followers/favoriters: Anchor654 and aceupthesleeve. I really appreciate all the positive reception I've been getting. Thank you so much!

* * *

The Inquisitor had fallen one month after defeating Corypheus—one month after Solas had left.

Those thirty days had been some of the longest and darkest Lavellan had experienced in her short life. Everyone around her treated her as if she were fragile, broken. And, she supposed, to some extent she was. But the more they hovered over her, concerned, the more she felt the despair sinking in. No amount of travel, duties, or campaigning could wrench her back to herself. She was numb.

Sometimes she called out to him in the Fade as she slept, like an addict looking for her next fix. She could conjure memories of him, the sharpness of his gray eyes, the slight quirk to his lips when she accidentally said something profound. But that was all that came to her at night, the memories of him, and they were blurry, half-formed, running on a loop. She could not interact with him in her memories.

The decision she had made was nothing so formed as a true suicide attempt. She was so sick of feeling nothing, so tired of seeing in muted color, that she knew something had to change. She had decided to do something horribly risky and, if her life was spent in the undertaking, so be it.

Lavellan ordered her horse on the morning of her fall, mounted up, and pelted down the icy slope of Skyhold at a gallop. She took sharp turns, flying over logs and boulders, her golden hair whipping behind her, the cold biting her cheeks. Slowly, as if awakening from a slumber, her heart began to beat again, a dull ache in her chest. She breathed deeply, spurred her horse on.

The ledge appeared so abruptly underfoot that Lavellan didn't really have any time to grab the saddle horn. Her horse saw it, threw his weight back. The sudden force sent her over his head and tumbling down the steep face of a rocky slope. Her first impact crushed her hand between a large rock and her own hip. The pain was jolting, nauseating. Her vision swam as she continued to fall, her body failing.

She came to rest on the edge of another ledge, her destroyed hand dangling over the side. She hurt all over, too much to stand, and so she laid there, drifting in and out of consciousness.

It was dark when she heard the calls, her name, her title, her position, a dozen voices seeking her out. They echoed along the cliff wall. She was protected enough that she'd be nearly impossible to spot without knowing where she was. And as someone approached the ledge twenty feet above her, looking out, she considered remaining quiet.

Already her body was sluggish and warm, beyond the point of shivering. She'd gotten through the wretched, cold part of freezing to death. All that was left to do was fall asleep. She closed her eyes.

But then there were gentle hands on her body. Even those gentle hands hurt her many cuts and bruises, though. She blearily opened her eyes, seeing a boy in a wide-brim hat, staring at her.

"Found her, frozen, fallen. But she was already frozen before the fall. Already fallen before she froze."

Despite his scrawny size, Cole lifted her in his arms like it was nothing and held her close.

His warmth, his body, it was daggers to her. Lavellan tried to push him away, but was too weak to even put her hand on his chest.

"I found her," Cole said, his voice coming as close to a shout as she'd ever heard it.

Faces began to appear above her, peering down from the ledge above. Someone tossed a rope down.

"She's alive," Cassandra exhaled.

"Somewhat. She's frozen half to death." Dorian began casting a spell, and Lavellan could feel pricks of heat all over her body, excruciating.

"Cole, tie the rope to your waist," Cullen said. "Hold the Inquisitor and we'll pull you both back up."

And then she was rising, suspended around the waist by a skinny, yet firm arm. Everyone tried to grab her at once, to rub warmth back into her. But it was Cullen who claimed her, wrapping her in his thick, blanket-sized cloak and cradling her in his arms.

"You sure you don't need a hand?" Bull offered.

"I've got her," Cullen answered, his arms tightening.

They marched back down the narrow path a little ways, flagging down other Inquisition soldiers to end the search. Then Cullen mounted his horse, one arm still wrapped around Lavellan, and they set off for Skyhold.

She did not remember all the details from that night. Some of them had been filled in by her friends who'd found her. But she did remember the smell of Cullen's cloak—oil, leather, and musk—and the feeling of his arm around her. And she remembered his prayer.

"Please, Maker, please don't let her die," he whispered over and over again until she was pried from his arms by the healers.

"Please, Maker, don't let her die."

* * *

Cullen was asleep when Lavellan awoke. He was mere inches from her, on his side, as if he'd been watching her until the moment sleep had overtaken him. Still in his bulky armor and without a blanket, he snored deeply. He had dark bags under his eyes, large enough to be mistaken for black eyes.

Lavellan sat up, wondering how long he had been up with her. She could smell smoke; the campfire must have burned out without anyone to tend to it. She peeled the mound of furs back past her thigh and began slowly unwinding the bandage.

The poultice had done its work. She had a fleshy pink scar running the length of her thigh. Little scabs had formed around the stitches Cullen had put in. She removed them with a dagger then gave the healing wound a good rub to get blood flow going.

Determined to make up for the other day, Lavellan began to prepare breakfast. It was slow going with only one good hand, and some tasks she had to give up on completely (she simply couldn't figure out how to peel a potato without her other hand, so she plopped them in the pot with their skin on). But she managed to make a decent biscuit and gravy breakfast with boiled potatoes, and brought both plates with her back into the tent.

Cullen was still fast asleep; it didn't look like he'd even moved while she'd been busy. Lavellan hesitated. He needed the sleep, after all. But he was more likely to be upset if she let him sleep the day away than if she woke him up. Besides, she had warm food, and that would certainly lift his spirits. She lightly jostled him.

His amber eyes fluttered open, confused, until they fell on her. He groaned and sat up, automatically accepting the plate she offered him.

"Seems like you don't have nightmares anymore," Lavellan said, taking a bite of her biscuit.

Cullen blinked away the sleep. "How do you know about the nightmares?"

She gave an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry to be the one to inform you," she said, "but all of Skyhold knows about your nightmares. You _shout_ _in your sleep_."

His cheeks reddened.

"But you looked calm just now, lying there."

He nodded, blowing on his food. "How do you feel?"

Lavellan displayed her newly-scarred leg. "Removed the stitches myself before you got up."

Without thinking, Cullen ran a hand down the scar, checking its soundness. He felt Lavellan go still under his touch and realized what he was doing, retracting his hand as if he'd burnt it. "Looks good," he said, diving into his breakfast, eyes averted.

He could feel her intense blue stare on him, but she didn't say anything. They continued to eat in silence.


	7. Academic

Hello, marvelous readers. I would like to give a special thanks to Douxdel, who has left me, not one, but two reviews. You're awesome! And, of course, a big thank you to all my new favoriters/followers: ErsbethShadowSong, mirik222, ffoecaf, and Silverchick02.

* * *

Though she would never know it, it had been Lavellan who had gotten Cullen through the worst of his lyrium withdrawal. It hadn't just been the one pep talk after he'd begged Cassandra to appoint a new commander, but her constant support.

In fact, while at Skyhold, Lavellan had made a point of visiting him every day after that first talk, just to see how he was doing. She had the grace, the tact, to make it seem normal, like they were just chatting as friends do. He never felt mothered or worried over. Just cared for.

"Cullen," she said, during one of these visits, "the fur you wear on your shoulders—what animal is it from?" The young elf woman was sitting in his ladder—yes, _in it_, with her arms and legs wrapped around the rungs in a way that somehow looked comfortable. "I've never seen an animal that looked like that before."

"Like what?" he said, glancing up at her from behind his desk.

She shrugged. "Big. Shaggy. Black and red."

He laughed, dipping his quill in the inkpot. "Then you've clearly never come face to face with a Ferelden Rough-Necked Tusker."

"Clearly not." She untangled her limbs from the ladder, approaching the desk. "It's from a pig?"

"A boar," he replied, scratching on the parchment before him.

She snorted, leaning on his desk. "A boar _is_ a pig."

He looked up at her, quirking a smile. "I thought a Dalish hunter would know the difference between a boar and a pig."

She returned the smile. "What you call something matters little. I could call it the Grand Enchanter so long as I knew to avoid the tusks and sever the spinal cord." She turned and walked away, her hands clasped behind her. "And if you must know," she called over her shoulder, "the Dalish call a boar and a pig by the same word. As far as I'm concerned, the difference is purely academic."

His smile widened, and he followed her out with his eyes. She swayed as she walked, and Cullen couldn't help but lower his gaze to where her hands were clasped. His cheeks burned, and he coughed and quickly turned his attention back to his work.

* * *

Cullen walked a few yards behind the Inquisitor, his sword drawn. He didn't intend to get caught off-guard again like they had the other day with the bear.

Thinking back on his withdrawal struggles, he frowned. Why hadn't he been there for her, as she had been for him?

Sure, he had tried to visit her as she'd visited him. But often she wanted to be alone in her quarters, sometimes not emerging for the whole day. Cullen had supposed their struggles different; he had not been heartbroken, after all. Maybe what she did really need was time alone. He wasn't going to disrespect her wishes.

But maybe he should have. Maybe if he'd forced his companionship on her, made her talk…

Cullen shook his head. He didn't know the right answer, but he had long ago come to terms with the fact that if he beat himself up over every past choice, he wouldn't make it out alive.

"_None of us make it out alive_," the Inquisitor had said when she'd stayed back to distract Corypheus.

"I see Redcliffe," Lavellan shouted to him, farther ahead than Cullen had intended to let her get.

He cursed his wandering mind and jogged to catch up. Sure enough, as he crested the ridge they were on, the village and castle rose into view. The sounds of commerce drifted up the road. Boats winked on the blue water of Lake Calenhad. The empty Circle Tower stood beyond that, stark and lonely.

"Thank the Maker," Cullen breathed, finally sheathing his blade. "We'll be able to get new mounts here, I warrant. And another tent."

Lavellan looked at him from under her lashes. "You sound relieved to not be sharing anymore."

He instantly turned a delightful shade of scarlet. "I don't mind sharing with you." He turned redder, if possible. "Not specifically you. I mean, two to a tent isn't bad. Especially since you're so small."

She arched a brow, struggling to hide her smile.

"Forgive me," he groaned, hiding his face behind a gauntleted hand.

Lavellan couldn't contain herself any longer and allowed a small laugh.

Cullen peeked between two fingers. He dropped his hand when he saw her expression, smiling himself. "Shall we head into the village, Inquisitor?" he asked, scratching his head.

She nodded, and he turned to go. "Cullen," she said, catching his hand.

He turned back to her, and Lavellan wrapped an arm around his neck, tilting him suddenly forward. She pressed her lips to his, soft and full. He stared at her, startled, waiting for her eyes to suddenly open with a wicked glint. But they remained closed, her lips insistent.

Cullen closed his eyes, enveloping her in his arms, and returned the kiss.

It was languorous and tender, passionate yet chaste. When they parted, they were both breathless, searching each other's eyes.

"Vaesyra," she said after a moment.

He blinked at her.

"Call me Vaesyra."


	8. Becoming Lavellan

Hello, beautiful readers. Thank you, new followers/favoriters: Jazz-Maverick, Fionavus, Cable Fraga, Green Ribbon, and KC Pendragon.

Warning about possible triggers: there is non-con/attempted rape in a flashback.

* * *

Cullen had been mortified to learn that he didn't actually know the Inquisitor's first name. Lavellan, he'd thought it was. When she wasn't "Inquisitor" or "Herald" or "Your Worship," she was Lavellan. He'd even thought Solas had called her Lavellan.

"You may be confusing Lavellan with _lethallan_," she'd said, having the grace to offer an apologetic smile.

Despite the Inquisitor's pleading, Cullen had been too thoroughly embarrassed to engage in much conversation since the kiss.

"How could you have known?" she'd said. "You were introduced to me as Cullen. Of course I know your name."

She'd also tried to explain it away as a cultural difference.

"My clan is more reserved than others," she insisted. "We don't offer our first names unless we're on a very intimate basis with the other person."

Whatever comfort she was trying to offer was lost with the inclusion of the word _intimate_. His furious blush, which had been subsiding in the soothing mountain air, returned tenfold when she spoke, reaching the tips of his ears. It was childish, but he would not face her like this, especially when she started to laugh.

"Cullen, you act like you've never been with anyone."

Dread crept into him, like a trickle of ice water. He kept his head turned away, trying to focus on some point on the horizon. They were approaching Redcliffe, and there was plenty of activity to distract him.

"Wait."

Cullen felt a hand on his arm, gently stopping him. He turned to face her, but did not raise his eyes to meet hers.

"Are you…" She paused, as if thinking. "Are you a _virgin_?"

The question felt like an accusation. The words tumbled out of his mouth. "That's a stupid word. Who thinks in terms of virginity? Why does it matter? It has no bearing on anything. The word just gives weight to an idea established by the Chantry in order to control paternity. Unless I'm the king of Ferelden, which I most certainly am not, how often and whom I have relations with is my business."

"Cullen."

"Furthermore, it's not like I've had all the time in the world to have a relationship. I know you don't need a relationship to be intimate with a person, but I guess I'm just that kind of man. I wouldn't like to be with anyone I'm not close with, and I've never had time. I joined the Templars as a young man where I was assigned to the Ferelden Circle. And straight after that was Kirkwall, and now I'm here. There's not exactly any time for dalliances."

"Cullen!"

He stopped speaking, realizing he'd worked himself up into a rage. He covered his face with a gauntleted hand. "Forgive me," he said.

The Inquisitor laughed. "There's nothing to forgive. I wanted to stop you before you jumped to the wrong conclusion, though. I don't _care_ if you're a virgin. I am only incredulous that a man as handsome as you hasn't been seriously pursued before."

He stared at her.

She laughed again. "And you don't have to lecture me about virginity as an idea. I'm Dalish, remember? Haven't you heard the stories of us dancing naked in the moonlight? Virginity is a device the human Chantry uses. We don't even have a comparable Dalish word."

That was why she'd paused when asking him. She'd had to think of the word. He sighed, feeling more foolish than he thought was possible. This day was not his best. He wanted to melt into a puddle of shame.

But she caught his chin, standing inches from him, and tilted it to meet her bright gaze. "There is no shame in inexperience." She stood on her toes, placing a kiss on his lips. Her eyes were twinkling when she backed away. "If anything, I find it exciting."

Cullen could feel himself being lured out by this elven huntress. He didn't care. He pulled her back in, claiming her mouth. He could feel her smiling as their lips melded together, but he didn't care. The warmth and softness of her lips, the happy little noises she made, the feel of her arms around his waist—it drove a novel hunger in him.

After a moment, Lavellan broke away, grinning sheepishly at him. "We have an audience."

Cullen looked up. They had made their way to the Redcliffe gates and he hadn't even noticed. Two guards were staring at them over the battlements.

His blood still pounding in his ear, Cullen felt a source of confidence flush. "Are you going to open the gate, or just watch the show?"

* * *

It was more difficult to find new mounts than Cullen had anticipated. Dennet was still with the Inquisition, so the Hinterlands' stock had suffered. As a result, the demand was high and the supply was low. They haggled with a farmer in town, buying the work horses right off his vegetable cart. It was an absurd amount of coin, but the farmer and his cart were now stuck in Redcliffe until he could come by more horses. The difference was he had the time to wait, and now he had the gold to do it comfortably as well.

Despite the horse's age and wear, Lavellan managed to look regal on it. Her loose golden hair fell about her shoulders, bright in the sunlight. Her forest green cloak was striking on the roan's rump. She sat in the saddle well, despite it being much too large for her.

They attracted more attention than Cullen really wanted to, but it was difficult to avoid when travelling with the Inquisitor. Even with her Mark hidden, she was eye-catching. And they had gone from stall to stall, vendor to vendor, searching for mounts. He could hear whispers of the strange Dalish elf riding high like Andraste herself.

Undoubtedly, one of Lelianna's agents would notice them and report Cullen's incompetence back to the spymaster.

They purchased the rest of the supplies they had lost—a tent, a bedroll, rations—and were on their way again by time the sun was starting to set.

Lavellan knew the Hinterlands well, and suggested they make up a little for lost time. She knew several good places to camp, should it become too dark. Cullen agreed and, after a warm meal in the Gull and Lantern, they headed north out of Redcliffe.

* * *

The naked bodies dance in wide loops around bonfires. The bodies are smooth, hairless, and lithe. They are partnered, one man and one woman. Meeting, hands touching, peeling away, turning around the fire. Clapping and laughter.

Some distance away from the dance, she looks up at the sky and wonders at the constellations overhead. The celestial creators, too brilliant to be truly lost behind the thick velvet of the night.

She is staring at the sky, willing herself to turn to dust and blow away, because he is kissing her, her neck, her breasts. She is 16 and betrothed. She is not a mage. She is useless. Unwanted. Only _he_ wants her, and it is not _her_ he wants, but the body she occupies.

Her trembling has only grown stronger. Her eye and lip are swollen, black. He puts a leg between hers, pressing her against the ground. She gasps, pushes him away with all the strength she has. He rolls off, and she stands, tearing for the tree line. Tears make her vision blurry.

Magic trips her, binds her feet together. She eats a mouthful of dirt, blood. He is upon her, his fists battering her skull. Her vision swims. She cannot feel beyond the throb of her head.

Suddenly she is being lifted. She blinks, stares up into the face of a grayed elf. He is a stranger, but he is gentle as he wipes the dirt from her cheek.

Two other elves have her betrothed on his back, daggers to his throat.

"Mythal told me to come here," the old elf says, "and I would find something of value. Something golden." He gives her betrothed a hard look. "We are taking her with us. It is apparent neither you nor your clan sees her worth."

He carries her through the night in his arms. They are warm, gentle. He heals the wounds on her face, wraps her in a fur cloak. He puts a hand on her forehead and says, "Welcome to Clan Lavellan," and sends her to a dreamless sleep.


	9. Running

Lavellan awoke shivering. Sweat had soaked through her sleeping clothes and into the furs covering her. She shrugged them off, her breath visible in front of her, and made for the tent flap.

The sun flirted with the horizon, casting the Hinterlands in a dreamlike blue and gold haze. Redcliffe was a fuzzy point to the south. To the west, Lake Calenhad slumbered, dark waves massaging the pebbled shore. The two draft horses, Cullen's bay and her roan, watched her, their noses flaring as they took in her scent.

She grabbed a sack of grain, filled both their feed bags, and strapped them over the horses' heads. A lot of grain had spilled, and the bags were strapped a little more loosely than was practical, but by the Creators she was going to get those horses fed, injury or no. They began to munch away happily, and Lavellan was left to her thoughts.

She hadn't dreamt of her old clan for many months, not since the early days of the Inquisition. Something she'd been very grateful for. Her former life with her birth clan had been unpleasant to say the least.

Clan Irth'nass prioritized magical ability over all else—an attempt to return to the time when all Elvhen enjoyed an intimate connection with the Fade, she figured. They bred talent with like talent, as they did in Tevinter, trying to manufacture powerful mages. Most of the time, it worked. Lavellan was an exception. A wondrously disappointing exception.

"_The best gift I can offer: the truth. You are unique... You have a rare and marvelous spirit."_

Lavellan hugged herself, fighting off a shiver. He knew all the perfect things to say. Made her differences desirable, not despicable. She had felt a treasure to him. Precious. Beloved.

She had not heard Cullen get up, so when he spoke, she jumped.

"You're up rather early," the Commander said. He was in a rough cotton shirt and trousers. He looked much smaller without his armor protecting him. Smaller, but not small. Rather, he looked warm and inviting, soft, touchable. He looked very human.

"I could say the same for you," the Inquisitor replied, facing him, arms laced across her chest.

He laughed, his voice rough from disuse. "I always rise early. Ex-Templar, remember? Hard habit to break." He gestured to the horses. "I see you managed to feed them."

"More or less. I also inadvertently fed the birds when I dropped half the grain on the ground."

"Everybody's happy, then." Cullen smiled. "I can't help thinking Cole would like that. He'd say something profound in his way. _Birds need to eat, too_."

Lavellan smiled at his imitation, but the memory of her dream nagged worry back onto her face. She looked away. "People need to eat, too," she said, "so why don't we get breakfast started?"

"No arguing there," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I'll get the fire going. You can… I'm not really sure what you can do."

"I'll try to find something." _I always have._

* * *

Lavellan hadn't really considered how difficult it would be to fall asleep with Solas's arms twined around her when she'd asked him if he'd mind sleeping with her.

"I'm not sure I heard you correctly," he'd said, nearly dropping the book he'd been perusing.

She waved him off. "I meant actual sleeping, Solas. Not the shem idiom. I…" She paused, searching for words on the ground. "I find you comforting," she finished lamely. She could feel his eyes on her.

Solas slid the book shut, placing it on his desk. He swayed to stand behind her, arms cradled against her waist. "It would be my pleasure to comfort you, lethallan."

His breath—hot in her ear.

That night, they'd ascended the stairs to the Inquisitor's quarters together, fingers loosely laced. There would be teasing, taunting, talking.

Let them talk, Lavellan thought as she melded against the heat of his chest. She slept very little that night, conscious of his every breath, basking in how perfectly they fit together.

When the sun crept over the Frostbacks, Solas awoke. He looked at her, his gray eyes dancing across her face, as if in an attempt to memorize it.

"You look as though you haven't seen me in years," she sighed as he began pressing soft kisses to her neck.

He brought her lips to his in a languorous kiss. "It always feels that way when we're parted," he said when he ended the kiss, his forehead pressed against hers.

"So grim and fatalistic," Lavellan laughed.

Solas did not return the laugh. He kissed her instead, again and again, until the only sensation left was that of their lips meeting.

* * *

Those moments: they had been sweet at the time. Her head spun at his every touch, his every word. It had all seemed so perfect. But looking back, the warning signs had been there. He'd always had one foot out the door.

"_We shouldn't. Not even here."_

"_It would be kinder in the long run."_

He had warned her. Had tried to tell her what was coming. She had ignored it.

"_No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real."_

She was a fool.

Lavellan wanted to rip her hair out, anything to make the endless loop of _him_ stop. It had been going since breakfast, continued as they struck down the campsite. Hours in the saddle heading north, the words mocking her. She kicked her roan into a gallop, blowing past Cullen. Even with the wind smacking her face, she couldn't catch her breath.

"Hey! Inquisitor!"

She heard him shout, the sound of his horse's hooves drawing closer.

"Vaesyra!"

Cullen caught up to her, cutting her horse off. The two mounts circled with anxious energy, excited from the sudden run. He glared at her for a moment before he noted the dead look of her eyes—the same dull lacquer as the day of the fall.

"What's wrong? Vaesyra, talk to me. Please."

She looked away. She knew what he was seeing. "I'm sorry. You must be so confused. One day I'm fine and the next…"

"Don't apologize. I've been there. You don't have to explain yourself to me. If you need to run, then run. Just tell me, and I'll run alongside you."

Lavellan exhaled, closing her eyes. "You're so good, Cullen."

He quirked a smile at her. "Come on. Let's run."

She blinked at him, venturing a small smile of her own. "Let's."

As a wind from the west picked up, they took off across the grassland.


	10. Beginning to Unpack

Hello again, dazzling readers. I forgot to put my shout-out in last time, so I have some catching up to do! Thank you to all my readers, especially my new favoriters/followers: leschjc, wildfire1977, scarletXshad0w, wiccan182, kannabi-no-miko, clicksqueak, anakelle, dragontranslator, The Jolly Hat, Miss Megz, XmArKzThEsPoT, and AgapeErosPhilia. Wow, you all make me feel very special and loved!

And this is a special plug for AgapeErosPhilia's story _A Hopeful Kind of Sad_. Wonderful story featuring a Solas/Lavellan pairing. You should all go check it out.

* * *

"It was the first time I'd ever been in love," Lavellan said.

They'd galloped for as long as they dared on the old work horses, slowing them to a trot after a few minutes. They huffed the air, nostrils flaring with each greedy inhalation. They were silent, but it was a comfortable silence. The run had swept the Inquisitor's golden hair back, tossing it wildly about her shoulders. The wind had nipped her cheeks, leaving them a brilliant shade of pink. Her lips were pressed in a fragile, young smile. And they just rode like that for a while, reveling in the afterglow of an open gallop across grassland.

Cullen had spoken first, unable—no, unwilling—to just ignore the problem anymore. Maybe Lavellan didn't want to talk about it, but he was going to make damn well sure that she knew he was there to listen if she wanted.

"Let's discuss Solas," he'd said, imagining it seemed rather abrupt.

To her credit, she didn't flinch or glare at him. She hummed thoughtfully. "Alright. I'm afraid you'll have to direct the conversation though, because I have no idea where to even begin."

Cullen blinked. "Just like that?"

She nodded. "It's time. I need to start trying to… unpack this thing. And I trust you."

"You do?"

She looked at him. "It scares me, but yes. I do." She paused, letting the silence grow between them, before continuing. "I've had that trust abused many times. Each time it happens, I add another stone to the wall I've built around myself. I don't think that wall will ever come down. Not for anyone. Yet," she held his gaze, not allowing him to drop his eyes, "perhaps it's not as solid as it looks. As it feels. Someone might slip through one of the holes."

Cullen shook his head. "You don't give yourself enough credit, Inquisitor. Vaesyra." The name was still cumbersome on his tongue. "You think you've kept everyone out, but I see how you care for your companions. I believe you would go on a warpath if harm came to any one of them."

Vaesyra looked away. "I trust them with my life. But I don't trust them with _me_. Not as I trust you."

"Or as you trusted Solas."

She continued to examine the horizon. It was then that she'd said, "It was the first time I'd ever been in love."

Cullen wanted to reach out, place a hand on her shoulder, but she was too far away and it would be too awkward while mounted. "No one in your clan?"

Lavellan shook her head slowly. "I was too busy healing from old hurts when I came of age. No one knows this, not even Leliana, but Lavellan wasn't my birth clan. They adopted me when I was 16. Life was… difficult in my birth clan." She laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose this needs unpacking, too."

Cullen stared at her, mystified. Why anyone would willingly send this woman away was a mystery to him. "What were the circumstances of your adoption?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"Not ideal," she replied, and he assumed she was going to leave it at that after a beat of silence. But then she continued, "I am not a mage. For a human of Thedas, that might be a blessing. For me, it was a curse. My old clan valued magic above all else, and when it became evident I was not touched by the Fade, I became worthless. They could not be rid of me fast enough. Lavellan welcomed me with open arms; they did not care that I wasn't a mage. My use—my value—extended far beyond my physical limitations."

What seemed obvious and innate to Cullen had been something the Inquisitor had needed to be taught. "I understand better why you were so determined to go personally to help your clan."

She inclined her head, neck arching gracefully. "They saved me, in no uncertain terms." Finally, she returned her gaze to him, the deep azure of her eyes almost startling. "As I will save them."

* * *

She has never known what it feels like to be full. Not truly, not until now, as she sits near the edge of the fire. Hands on her stomach, she wonders at how she tolerated that hollow feeling all those years. Always having something to eat, but never enough. Existing, not living.

The slender woman to her left offers her a plate of rabbit meat. She accepts it, and continues passing it along to her right, too full to take any more.

These are a people of plenty. Not to be confused for excess; they have enough for everyone to be happy, more if they wish it, but it always seems that they are content to be merely full.

She looks at the Keeper, who is sitting at a neighboring fire, telling a story to the children. He is a tall elf, his gray hair long and loose. His nose is severely crooked—from a time when he was young and reckless and too ready to throw a punch. He gestures widely with callused hands; the children's eyes go wide in the firelight.

He is a good man. Her first days with Lavellan were confusing as she tried to suss out her new place in the world. Her first assumption was wrong—that she was going to continue as before, just with a different set of people. When the Keeper found her naked in his tent, lying in wait on his bedroll, he sent her away.

She cried. _Have I displeased you, hahren?_ she said, never having wanted someone's approval so badly.

_No, da'len, no. But you need not try to please anyone. You are a child of Lavellan. You have a place with us. Always. You do not need to earn it._

She looks away when the Keeper notices her stare. She admires him, continues to want to please him even though he has said she shouldn't. She has decided to please him in other ways, though. Her body is not the currency it once was. She is not trying to gain any favors from him. She simply wants him to think well of her, more than anything else. So she throws herself into the knowledge he offers, learning the clan stories, the way of the hunt, the maintenance of an aravel.

His smile, when she does something clever, makes her chest tight with happiness. She can see out of the corner of her eye—he gives it to her now, freely. And she cannot stop herself from smiling, too.


	11. Warmth

Hello, best readers! Thank you for sticking with me. Extra thanks to my new followers/favoriters: Princess Destinee, runner, justforkicks, and FormerSuperVillain.

Just a heads up: there is explicit content in this chapter. If that bothers you, move along.

* * *

She holds the hare aloft by its hind legs, smiling. _I did it, hahren_, she says, approaching the Keeper.

The gray elf returns her smile. _I see, da'len. And with a knife, no less._

She blushes, yanking a throwing knife from the hare's corpse. _I am no good at archery._

He laughs. _That is true. But you are stubborn. You have found another way. A way most others wouldn't think to try._

She blushes further at the compliment. _It's a weakness_, she says, _to be Dalish and not be able to use a bow_.

His laughter dies. He looks at her thoughtfully. _We have many who can use a bow. But only you can do what you do with knives._ He places a large hand on her golden head. _You have nothing to prove, da'len. But, if you did, you would have proven yourself a thousand times over. Lavellan is made better by your presence._

* * *

Cullen blinked up from the campfire as Vaesyra approached, sitting next to him on the fallen log. She carried himself heavily, shoulders slumped. She unbuckled her daggers as she sat, leaning them against the log.

"No luck?" he asked, placing a hand on her knee.

She sighed. "No. I can't detect even the slightest trace of them."

His hand squeezed. "We'll find them."

Vaesyra didn't reply, but gave him a faint smile.

They were just east of West Hill, where Lavellan's Keeper had said the clan would be waiting. They'd arrived at dusk. Cullen had wanted to set up camp, but the Inquisitor wanted to search the vicinity for her family. He had wanted to argue, to keep her safe, but the look in her eye told him that letting her go look was more important than even her physical safety. Against every instinct, he'd told her to go, that he'd set up camp. That she was to be back in an hour or he'd come searching high and low for her.

True to her word, Vaesyra had returned within the hour. And she was unharmed, if a little soul-sore. As they sat next to each other, she kept scanning the hazy horizon, as if her clan might suddenly appear.

"Vaesyra," he murmured, drawing her into his arms.

She melded against his bulky armor, arms wrapping around his waist. He pressed his face to the top of her head, inhaling her earthy scent.

"We'll look for them, first thing tomorrow," he said. "We'll find them."

She said nothing, only held him tighter.

* * *

The next morning, they ate and broke down camp quickly. They were on horseback before the sun had fully snuck above the horizon. They headed north, towards the Waking Sea, hoping to find some sign of Lavellan.

It was bitterly cold, with a steady, freezing drizzle. Winds from the north swept down across the flat land, whipping the rain into their faces. Both were quickly soaked through, and found themselves shivering.

By noon, Cullen could no longer feel his feet or hands. Whatever signs of Lavellan might have been there would have been washed away by the rain. Vaesyra seemed determined to continue in miserable silence until a chill took both of them. When they paused for lunch, he placed a hand on her shoulder, eyes searching.

"We need to wait out this weather," he said, keeping his voice steady.

Her eyes flashed.

"It's too cold to continue. One of us, if not both of us, is going to get sick. And then we're completely useless to help your clan when we find them."

A shiver that Vaesyra had been suppressing overtook her. "Cullen, we can't just give up," she bit out between her chattering teeth.

He wrapped her in his arms. "We're not giving up. We're being smart."

When she didn't protest, Cullen took it as an agreement. He began setting up camp in the woodlot they'd stopped to rest in. Protected from the wind and rain, he could feel a flicker of warmth in his core fighting to reach out to his extremities. He managed to get a meager fire going with some of the kindling and wood from their packs, although he didn't think it would last long without new dry wood. He pitched his tent near the fire and brought the horses close.

Vaesyra stood there with her arm in the splint, water dripping from her hair. When the fire got going, Cullen led her to it, rubbing her frigid hands between his.

They sat before the fire for a while, but their clothes were too wet to really get warm.

"We need to get out of these clothes," Vaesyra said, shuddering. "Come."

Cullen took her hand and allowed himself to be guided into the tent. His mind was slow with the cold, and he didn't really have time to register any embarrassment. He stared dumbly at the Inquisitor as she fumblingly began to kick off her leggings.

"Help," she breathed.

He knelt, grasping the ankles of the garment and tugging. They clung to her, wet, and slid off slowly, revealing skinny white legs. Cullen felt his mouth go dry, the leggings wadded in his hands. He lifted his gaze to her eyes, dark blue in the dim light.

"Now my shirt."

He crawled over to her as she sat. She'd shrugged out of the splint, her damaged arm lying uselessly on her lap. He pulled the leather cuirass over her head gently, helping her thread her hand through it. He tossed both pieces of clothes he held aside, taking her in.

She was so small and so pale, the veins in her arm a bruised shade. Her hair, normally golden in the sunlight, looked silvery, and draped down her shoulders. Her lips were tinged blue from the cold, eyes keenly observing him.

"Kiss me," she said.

Cullen leaned over her, pressing his lips to hers. They were cold, but he felt her warm tongue parting them, teasing his tongue. He pressed himself against her, but jumped back at her yelp.

"What is it?"

"Your armor. It's very cold."

He blinked, then quickly stripped out of it, practically tearing at the buckles of his breast plate. When he was down to his shirt and trousers, Vaesyra sat up and kissed him lingeringly, her hands slipping beneath his shirt. She broke the kiss, pulling the shirt up and over his head, tossing it with the rest of their clothes.

Cullen chased her back down to the bedroll, groaning as her lips found his neck.

"Maker's breath, what are you doing?"

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, yes," he sighed, feeling her tongue and lips on his jugular. He pressed into her. His cheeks burned when he felt her hips grind against him in response. "We shouldn't…"

She ground against him again. "It will warm us up."

"Yes," he murmured, reason abandoning him. He had wanted her for so long, wanted to feel her skin beneath his fingers, hear the noises she made. Suddenly, he was being rolled, and Vaesyra was straddling him.

She slid down to his ankles, tugging his trousers with her. His length bulged at his smallclothes. She stared at it blatantly, giving him a mischievous smile. She pulled down his smallclothes, tossing them away, exposing all of Cullen.

He wanted to cover himself. He felt so embarrassed; he'd never been this exposed before. But before he could say anything, she had her mouth on him, on _all_ of him, and was bobbing her head up and down, suckling gently.

He cried and arched his back, trying to thrust deeper into her mouth.

Vaesyra purred around his erection, licking the tip. She took his bucking in stride. When he was close, she backed off, pressing little kisses along his length, before swallowing him again.

He came in her mouth harder than he ever had before. He began to apologize, but she looked at him heatedly from his groin and swallowed. She crawled up his torso, draping herself on top of him, eyes half-lidded. The apology died in his mouth.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep, Cullen."

"Please, I want to touch you."

She smiled. "Then touch me."

His large, callused hands started with her face, thumbs across her cheeks, brushing the hair from her eyes. He moved to her shoulders, drifting along her spine, feeling the smooth curve of her buttocks under her smallclothes.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured.

She pressed another kiss to his forehead before rolling off of him, pulling the blanket over top of both of them. "Sleep," she commanded.

And it wasn't hard to drift off, between the pleasant heat growing between them and the luxuriating aftershocks of his release.


	12. Alone

Hello, reader-folk. Sorry for the brief hiatus. I have been ill and dealing with the busyness that follows the illness. As usual, thanks to all my readers, especially my new favoriters/followers. I'm discontinuing naming each one of you because it's getting to be confusing for my wee brain. But know that I appreciate you.

Please enjoy, and look forward to updates on a more weekly basis.

* * *

Cullen awoke alone.

He didn't know he'd imagined he would wake up next to her—not until he felt a small pang of betrayal as he touched the cold spot on the bedroll next to him, where she should have been. He spread his hand over her spot and closed his eyes, breathing the chill air in and out. Rain still pattered lightly on the tent.

He felt good, despite the traitorous ache in his heart. Better than he had in years, actually. Like the worry of a lifetime had melted overnight. His limbs were loose and tingling, brow light. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been wound. He sat up and stretched, reveling in the euphoria of relaxed muscles. The furs on top of him spilled to his waist. The cold tickled his nakedness. He was half-tempted to pull the furs back up over top of him and doze off, a first for him, but he needed to get up.

The clothes that had been so hastily discarded were hanging neatly from a makeshift clothesline in the tent, something Vaesyra had probably rigged after he'd fallen asleep. They were nearly dry, his skin quickly warming them once he was dressed. He donned his armor and his cloak before venturing outside, hoping some sort of food would be ready.

Cullen was immediately alarmed when he looked around the campsite, although he could not place why. The fire had died, a small finger of smoke swirling from the last breathing ember. His horse huddled beneath a tall pine, staring at him dully. Vaesyra wasn't in sight, although that wasn't altogether a bad sign; she could be relieving herself or fetching water. He looked up, a drop of rain landing in his eye. Well, maybe not gathering water, then. He studied the campsite again, wondering why he felt so unnerved, and then he realized it.

Her horse was gone.

And now that he noticed that, his eyes darted to where she'd left her travel pack. Sure enough, that was gone, too.

The blood pooled at his feet.

Could she really have been so foolish? Cullen scanned the ground, following the trails of hoofprints until he found a set outbound from their camp. He followed them for a few paces, as if to convince himself that she'd actually left. The hoofprints exited the tree line, then struck northeast, heading in a straight line for as far as he could see in the rain. Which admittedly wasn't more than fifty yards. But, in the pit of his stomach, he could feel an overwhelming certainty that she had indeed set out alone to hunt for her clan.

Muttering oaths to the Maker, Cullen struck camp as quickly as he could and followed her trail at a gallop.

* * *

How could he compete with an elf?—one who walked the streets of ancient Arlathan, befriended spirits, saved her life _twice_ now.

Cullen had stared at Solas across their makeshift camp, trying not to be jealous.

It had been fruitless, of course, as he'd watched Solas entertain her with long-forgotten riddles and jokes, turn her hand over and over to examine it, walk alongside her as they scouted their way through the Frostbacks. Even as inexperienced in the ways of romance as Cullen was, he could tell Vaesyra was enamored with the other man. Her blue eyes were wide with wonder and delight as she stared at him, a smile always on her lips.

Cullen had looked on sadly as the two grew closer. By the time they'd discovered Skyhold, he'd resigned himself to a non-romantic relationship with Lavellan. Which was fine, really, he tried to convince himself. He'd had plenty of female friends before her, and he was certain to have plenty after her.

He simply couldn't compete with a man like Solas.

* * *

After an hour of riding, Cullen admitted to himself that there wasn't much of a trail to follow anymore. He could not have been far behind her, but the rain melted the soft prints until they were nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the sloppy ground. He'd dismounted, bent over to squint at the mud. But he was no tracker.

With despair sinking it, it was difficult not to feel resentful towards Vaesyra. He wondered what that moment in the tent had meant to her, if anything at all. Had she just meant to distract him so that she could continue as she pleased? Was the whole thing a ruse so that she could ditch him later? The kisses? The looks?

Cullen shook his head. Now was not the time. She was first and foremost the Inquisitor, and he had forgotten that, apparently. He needed to find her, secure her safety. Ship her back to Skyhold, if that's what it took. Only then would there be time for hurt.

He hoisted himself back into the saddle, biting back a shiver, and turned east.


End file.
